


Flares

by Cumbermarvel (UglyJackal)



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brief Mention of Suicide, References to Depression, brief mention of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 11:57:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16040006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UglyJackal/pseuds/Cumbermarvel
Summary: He had no reason to feel like this.





	Flares

**Author's Note:**

> haaa i love projecting

Nothing was wrong.

Nothing was wrong.

Nothing had happened.

He had no reason to feel like this.

So why was he so stupid?

Stupid.

Stupid.

Weak.

Idiot.

Christ, he hated himself.

If only he had a reason.

If only the pain could be justified.

If only.

If only.

_If only._

And yet the dark clouds continued to twist and turn and broil and crash above him. With no reason. No purpose.

The lightning would stab down into his head, into his eyes. The screaming of his mind, of his heart, of the heavy metal ball in his stomach.

Just smile.

Smile and it would be fine.

He’d be fine.

It would go away.

Go away.

Away.

He wished he could go away.

He had tried to astral project, to force himself out of his body, almost a physical embodiment of disassociating. But it hadn’t worked.

It hadn’t worked.

It had made it worse.

He had lost touch with himself.

Had been floating in a bay of nothingness and it had made him feel sick.

Maybe if he threw up, the bad feelings would be forced out of his body.

Then he’d be okay.

So long as he smiled.

Smile.

Smile.

Do it.

Go on.

Just a little bit of effort.

Put your heart into it.

For once.

Put some effort into something other than hating yourself.

The fire had been doused; the reason - his hands - had passed, had healed. Partially, at least. But the ashes still flamed. It burned. It burned so much. And the smoke. Dear God, the smoke.

Blood of the Milky Way dribbled from eyes of the universe. He couldn’t see. The blood was dark and blurry and he couldn’t see. The stars had gone out. He was alone in the darkness.

Alone.

Alone was what he had.

Alone protected him.

If only he could hold a blade steady against his wrist.

But he couldn’t.

A hand that shook like an angry dog flung out, catching the bottle of whiskey on the table.

Why bother with a glass?

Who did he have to impress?

It certainly wasn’t himself.

No one cared.

There was no one there.

The cap fell to the ground like a crystalline tear from a bearded jaw.

And the liquid bubbled as it flowed down the neck of the bottle and then down the neck of the sorcerer.

At first, it made him gag and splutter. The golden poison that had haunted his past sprayed over his greasy mattress, like paint over an empty canvas. He swallowed thickly, glassed over, teary eyes burning like summer heat.

He had given this up.

Years ago.

And here he was.

Doing it again.

He was digging the hole again.

The bottle in his trembling hands, his shovel.

His mouth, the ground.

With smoky tears filling his vision, the shovel stabbed into the ground again.

With such force that it was as though he was trying to break his teeth.

Maybe he was.

He was no stranger to pain.

This time, he did not cough. The bitter liquid in his throat was alien to him. But he soon entered its warm embrace again.

So he drank.

And drank.

And _drank_.

He drank until the bottle was empty.

But even the liquid in his stomach couldn’t fill the emptiness that he felt.

He had broken and snapped and crashed and burned. But he had never mended. Even if the doctors had sewn his bones back together, pinned them in place, stitched his skin in a haphazard pattern. Even if the ashes had fixed themselves back together; motes of dust had fused like cells; muscles had stitched and bones had snapped back into place. Even if skin had draped over musculature and hair had been screwed back into follicles. Even if invisible needles and threads had stitched robes and belts and cloaks back together. And even if the ocean had lended its water and kelp to fill sad irises, he could not mend.

He was the impossible puzzle.

He was too stupid to be okay, to allow himself to be fixed.

Why couldn’t it stop?

It hurt so much. So, so much. He was convinced it was the end.

How long had it been? Days? Weeks?

More like hours.

Because he was the sort to make a big deal out of nothing.

He was the sort of person to cry over spilt milk.

He was the sort of person that would abandon his duties to the universe simply because he was feeling a little sad.

He’d show them.

He’d _smile_.

But cupid-bow lips were rigid in their misery. Refused to be changed. Refused to stop hurting him.

There was a noise. The door. No. No, no, no, no, no!

He couldn’t allow anyone to see him like this.

But before he could make an attempt to do something, anything. There was someone standing there. In front of him. Staring at him. _Pitying him_.

‘Stephen?’

Eyes like a car crash drove into his intruder. His lip wobbled. And then the oil from the burning car fell down and spread across the road.

He sobbed.

And sobbed.

And _sobbed_.

He sobbed until he was empty.

There were arms around him. A face pressing into his neck, into his greasy, dirty, unwashed neck. Words that meant nothing and everything choked into his ear.

And in the distance, he saw the flares, the sparks filled with hope. The light that blinded him, the smoke that burned against the planets in his eyes. The kind of burn that made it difficult to see his pain and his sadness, but made it especially easy to see the next day, and the day after that. And the entire future that he lay in front of him. All of the good that he would do for the world. The world that was his to protect.

And he couldn’t leave that behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Buy me a coffee: https://ko-fi.com/stephenstrangestan


End file.
